Voyageurs

by Margaret Elphinstone

  ‘This gentleman wants M'sieu Mackenzie,’ said Georges.

  Alan looked at me. For all that I had lost my broad- brimmed hat on the French River, and now wore a voyageur's red woollen cap with a tassel ('twas the first coloured garment I'd worn in my life, but as I couldn't see it, I tended to forget I had it on, except when the sun got in my eyes and I missed my hat), my dress was still Quakerly enough. I know not if Alan saw the likeness to Rachel as Charlotte Ermatinger had done. Just as she did, he knew already that I existed. I watched recognition slowly dawn in him, and then I spoke to him plainly. ‘Alan, I'm thy brother-in-law, Rachel's brother. I've come from Mungrisdale in Cumberland to find thee, and to find her, if she lives.’

  I could see amazement in his face, and a kind of horror, like a man that sees a ghost, and then that passed too. His eyes were neither green nor brown, but that variable colour in between which men call hazel.3 He held out his hand to me, and said to me in a voice that only shook a little, ‘I have heard of you, of course. You are Mark Greenhow. How do you do?’

  The question seemed to me irrelevant, so I ignored it, but I shook his hand heartily. Part of my fear, I realised, was that I should dislike him on sight, recognise him for a rogue and a libertine, and be filled with evil thoughts towards him. It would be easier to walk cheerfully if one were certain of recognising that of God in every man; it was a vast relief to me to find that with Alan it was not difficult. Indeed from that night onwards I was able to add him to the tally of my family in my prayers, and he has retained his place there ever since. I was able in all truth to say to him, ‘I am blithe to meet thee, brother.’

  ‘You've come a long way to do so.’

  ‘Ay.’

  The silence between us was broken by Charles Ermatinger, who had been occupied in rolling up his plan, but for all that I'd been aware of his eyes upon us. ‘I knew your sister, Mr Greenhow. Your family must have suffered greatly. I'm sorry for it.’ He turned to Alan. ‘Mackenzie, this will change your plans somewhat. If you both wish to stay the night with us, you're welcome.’

  Alan was still staring at me as if he couldn't drag his eyes away. ‘Tonight?’ He sounded dazed. ‘That's kind. Except . . . Mr Greenhow . . . Mark . . . what would you? I have to get back to Mackinac. The least I can do is offer you such hospitality as I can command. You must want . . . I don't know. Will you come back to Mackinac with me, sir?’

  ‘Ay.’

  ‘That's best, I suppose . . .’ He looked at me doubtfully. ‘My business here is a little delicate. If I take you back with me now, can I rely on your discretion? Can you swear you'll forget every detail of our trip, until we go ashore at Mackinac? Because if not, I can't take you.’

  ‘Nay, friend, I'll not swear. As for forgetting, it's not an act of will, so I can't vouch for it.’

  Alan smiled. ‘I was forgetting. In plain speech, brother Mark, will you please keep silent about anything that happens on our journey from the Sault to Mackinac?’

  ‘Otherwise thee won't take me?’

  ‘Just so.’

  I thought it over, while they waited for me. ‘I will keep silent, friend, so long as I witness no strife nor conflict with outward weapons, or bodily hurt to any man.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘But I may live long. Does thee require me to keep silent for ever?’

  ‘That's a hard one.’ It was Alan's turn to think a little. ‘How about twenty years, and that only if you're in England?’

  ‘Very well, friend. I will be silent for that long, and under that condition.’

  He laughed a little ruefully. ‘And I believe you, more than I'd believe many a man's oath, brother Mark. Such is the strength of a truthful people!’

  The three of us supped on whitefish and cornbread at Charles Ermatinger's house. I would have liked to have had more words with his wife, Charlotte, but she didn't sit with us, although she brought in the food and waited on us. She was silent, and neither of my companions spoke to her. I couldn't break what was evidently the custom of the house.

  We sat over our meal a long time. I asked Alan, ‘We travel to Mackinac in the dark, do we?’

  ‘It's a full moon, and a clear night.’

  Never shall I forget that journey across the river, with the sound of the falls following us, a shining line slowly receding as the current swept us away from the Sault township and into unknown night. The moon was the same midsummer moon that would be shining down on Highside. They would be haymaking by now, I reckoned. I thought of the long hot days in the field, the swish of the scythe and the dry grass falling – I am no mean hand at the scythe, for my father showed me the art of it as soon as I was tall enough – and the chatter of the women as they raised the stooks behind us. We always ate our dinner in the hayfield, in the shade of a hedge, looking across at the hills all bare and shadowless under the noon-day sun. Then back to work until the light started to thicken, and we had to stop because the dew was falling. Of course there were bad years too, when the weather never came right, and in the end we had to bring in the harvest in a scrambling hurry, and the hay was green and some of it spoiled altogether. When I was a little lad the harvests always seemed to be bad, but as I grew older the sun seemed to shine upon us more. I wondered if this year were a good one, and how my parents were faring, and what Thomas Carr was making of my share of the work.

  Around the moon the stars shone faintly. I found the Plough: we were heading south, give or take a little. Away from the falls the lake shone clear as glass, as the silence drifted in, broken only by the soft sound of expert paddling. The backs of the voyageurs were dark shapes in front of me, their paddle arms rising and falling in the rhythm that was by now woven into my own dreams too. This was a smaller canoe than the one I'd shared so long with Hugh, a canot du nord they call it, but there was so little cargo that I had room enough to stretch my legs out, a luxury unknown on the Outaouais route. At first a black bulk of land rose up on each side of us, but then the left bank fell away, and there was naught but the gleam of open water as far as the eye could reach. On our left the low-lying land went on without interruption. No one spoke or sang. I must have fallen asleep, for when I woke the sky was pale, with a faint tinge of yellow in the east, and for the first time since I left Montreal I felt it cold.

  I know not if Alan slept at all, but when I woke, he was looking out across the lake, and munching on a hunk of cornbread. He offered me a bannock and some cold whitefish. ‘Better than pease soup, eh, brother Mark?’

  ‘Ay.’ I sat up beside him and looked about. There was land on our left, close enough for me to see a white stone beach with stands of pine trees covering all the land behind it. ‘What land is this?’

  ‘This is Pekwadinashing.’ I must have looked blank, for he grinned. ‘St Joseph's Island to you. We have a small message to do here, and maybe a little food and a little sleep, if we're lucky.’

  I looked at that featureless forested shore, and burst out ‘I wish I had a map!’

  He regarded me with interest. ‘You like maps? There's a lot they don't tell you. As it happens, that's one desire I can gratify. I've a map at Mackinac you can look at. But we're getting close. Listen!’

  I heard the soft plash of the paddles, and a sighing in the pines on the shore. Then a heartbeat rhythm from within the island, still far away. ‘What's that?’

  ‘Drums.’

  We paddled on. Over the island the sky grew red, then orange. The sun heaved itself over the trees and the lake burst into light. The drums were growing louder. The sun reached us in the boat, and I felt the sudden warmth of it. There was a break in the forest. We were coming to a clearing. I could see smoke. We drew closer, and I saw a wharf. At least a score of big canoes were beached close by. There were little canoes too, some half in, half out of the water. The smoke came from dozens of campfires, with figures moving round them. The drums were beating everywhere. There was a fort at the top of the hill. Under its walls there was a big splash of red. We came alongside
. Some of the men around the wharf were voyageurs. A couple were sentries in red coats. Most were Indians. I stared, my heart in my mouth. They were dressed only in breechclouts and leggings. Their bare skin was daubed with black and russet, most of all around the face. Their hair was long; they wore beads and feathers. Worst of all, they were armed. All had knives, some had axes at their belts, and one or two had muskets slung across their shoulders. As for the splash of red up by the fort, I could see now it was a group of soliders, standing at ease against the bastion.

  ‘What is this place?’

  Alan caught the sharpness in my tone, for he said, ‘We come in peace, brother Mark. The war's not started yet. This is Fort St Joseph. It's a place where traders stop; it's one of our main meeting places. Some live here too. I'm going to take you to the house of one now, a good friend of mine.’

  ‘But this is a fort! This is an army!’

  ‘Yes, it's a fort.’ He was getting impatient. ‘And the Indian Department has offices here, so the Indians gather here too. It's everything. Will you step ashore, brother Mark?’

  Our voyageurs were already ashore, and with the speed I was used to they were unloading food and a kettle and preparing to make a new fireplace among the stones on the beach. I hesitated. The drums were so loud now they seemed to echo in my chest, as if my heart were not my own. Over and above the beat, I could hear a wild howling going to and fro, like men crying to one another across the mountains.

  ‘You can settle in for the day, lads. Get some sleep. We've another night's work before us.’ Alan turned to the bowsman, whose face I hadn't seen before, though I'd been watching his back, and the rhythmic twist and pull of his shoulder as he paddled, since first light: an image imprinted on my mind of a voyageur's knitted cap, long black hair hanging loose half way down his back, and a plain trade shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal powerful forearms. ‘Loic, will you take Mr Greenhow here to Mr Asian's house? Askin won't mind. Tell him – or if he's not there tell someone – to look after Mark today: let him eat, let him sleep. I'll meet you there in an hour or two, brother Mark. I'd get some rest if I were you. I won't be long, I promise.’

  He shouldered a canvas haversack and set off through the throng, up the hill towards the battery. I watched him go, frowning.

  ‘Come, m'sieu! Your bag will be safe here. Let me take you to the house of Mr Askin.’

  I looked at Loic. Apart from the long hair, he seemed a typical voyageur, dark, tough and sturdy. I knew enough now to recognise that he was as much Indian as French. ‘Can thee tell me, friend, what we do here? I thought we were going straight to Mackinac?’

  ‘Mr Mackenzie must speak to Captain Roberts. It won't take long.’

  ‘Captain Roberts . . . is he an officer here?’

  ‘He's the commander of Fort St Joseph.’ Loic picked a way through the crowd, sometimes speaking in an unknown tongue to the men we passed. Half a dozen drummers crouched round each drum, singing as they drummed. There were no words that I could hear, only a wild rhythm that rose and fell and made my skin prickle and my spine grow cold. Close to each campfire there was a stack of muskets, barrels pointing skywards. Some of the militia men were grilling fish on twigs over the fire, just the way we do by Derwentwater. Then we were through the crowd, and I was able to fall into step beside Loic. We followed a track along the shore. The sun was well up by now; I could feel the heat against my back. Little waves beat on the shore. Big copper-coloured butterflies flew to and fro. The steady drumming behind us was like the heart of the island beating as it slept under the sun. I took off my coat, and carried it on my arm.

  ‘What has Fort St Joseph to do with the South West Company at Mackinac?’

  ‘The British soldiers built this place when they had to leave Mackinac. Mackinac was given back to the Americans in ‘96. The British bought this island from the Indians and made a new fort here instead. St Joseph's Island is British. Over there,’ – he gestured towards the low line of land to the west of us – ‘that's American land. I was only a child, but there was much talk about it at the time.’

  ‘Where does thee come from, Loic?’

  ‘You would call it Bois Blanc.’ (I heard him say ‘Boblo’ but Alan spelt it for me a few days later, when I was bringing my notebook up to date.) ‘You will see. It's the next island to Mackinac.’

  ‘In American territory?’

  ‘Yes, though when I was growing up it made no difference. Only now.’

  ‘Thee lives there still?’

  ‘In winter only.’ We came to a little wicket gate with a garden of corn and vegetables beyond it. Loic held the gate open for me. ‘And you, m'sieu, you've come all this way from England?’

  ‘Ay.’

  He stopped me as I was about to go through the gate. ‘I knew Rachel, m'sieu. I travelled with them, all the time.’

  I stared at him. ‘Thee was there when she was lost?’

  ‘Yes, I was there.’ The crickets chirruped around us. Stems of raspberry grew almost over the gate. I took hold of one in between its prickles and lifted it out of my way. I could not raise my eyes to his. ‘Alan could have done no more, m'sieu,’ said Loic. ‘We stayed and searched from new moon to full, and back again. The ice was beginning to set. If we'd not left then, it would have been winter. If we'd stayed on South Manitou Island we'd have starved. We had no stores for winter.’

  ‘Loic.’

  ‘Yes, m'sieu?’

  ‘I must go to South Manitou Island. Thee understands that? I've come to find her if I can.’

  ‘I understand why you want to go to South Manitou Island. I think you will not find her.’

  I brushed my hand across my face and met his eyes. I could read no expression there at all. ‘Thee thinks she must be dead?’

  ‘M'sieu, I don't know. Either she was taken, or she's dead. She couldn't be alive, if she were alone.’

  ‘Taken?’

  ‘Sometimes women are kidnapped. Not only white women. It is a thing which happens sometimes among the Indians.’

  I asked him plainly. ‘Is thee Indian, Loic?’

  ‘My father is Martin Kerners. My father's father was Loic Kerners of Morbihan. My mother was Ottawa. She came from the south, in the Michigan Territory.’

  ‘And thee thinks that Rachel may have been kidnapped?’

  ‘I tell you, m'sieu, I don't know.’ He gestured for me to go through the gate. ‘Now I shall take you to the house of Monsieur John Askin. But we can speak again.’

  He led me past the garden, and on to a track where some log-framed houses looked east across the lake. We had come right round the little promontory on which the fort was built. There was another big encampment of Indians just along the shore. I struggled with the turmoil of my thoughts. Loic was silent.

  At length he stopped at a big log house, two storeys high, knocked on the door, and walked in. I heard him calling out in a language I didn't know, and apparently waiting while someone answered. Then an Indian woman came out with him.

  ‘Monsieur and Madame Askin are not here,’ said Loic. ‘This woman will give you breakfast, and you can sleep if you like. Alan will come soon.’

  It seemed quite dark within at first. Then I saw we were in a plain office, with a desk and chair, and a shelf of ledgers behind it. The board floor was swept and polished. Through an open door I glimpsed a section of a parlour: I could see a chair, and a framed picture on the wall above the hearth, simple indeed, but an extraordinary vision of civilisation to find in this wilderness. We didn't go in. Instead the woman led me through to a kitchen at the back. There was an enamel bowl filled with half washed dishes on the table, and rinsed glasses spread on a cloth to dry. The fire had sunk to glowing embers, which I was glad of, for the place was almost unendurably stuffy, though it was a relief to be out of the sun. The smell, half pleasant, half pungent, I presently identified as a mix of fresh-parched corn and burning sage. There was a pail of fresh water by the door, which was the thing I desired above anything else that
might be offered.

  Just as Loic was leaving he turned back to me. ‘I think you've done right,’ he said. ‘It's a good thing if a brother looks after his sister, however far she strays. We voyageurs liked her very well. I would help you, if I could.’

  1 I am better acquainted with our English canals now than I was then. A few years later I invested a small sum in the new Carlisle canal, and I was one of the shareholders who went through on the first boat. Later my elder son Alan and I went on an expedition of pleasure by canal – this would be when he was a lad of ten. We stayed with Friends in Kendal, then took the packet boat from Kendal to Preston, by way of Lancaster, a distance of fifty-seven miles. We went down through eight locks at Tewitfield, and then forty-two straight miles (the longest stretch of unbroken canal in the kingdom) to Preston. There was a tunnel at Hincaster almost quarter of a mile long, a great wonder in itself, but we preferred the locks, and the horses with their uniformed postilion, and the slow unfolding of an unknown countryside as we went by. Alan will be three and twenty this year in Ninth Month, and I have been to Preston several times, ay, and to London Yearly Meeting too, by railway. Thus times change.

  2 Or is all this the knowledge of hindsight? How hard it is to recapture the instant before a momentous change! I wish I had given less space in my notebook to the rapids, and the islands in the St Mary's River, and even the drawing of the winch and tackle on the lock gate, and thought to give my first impression of my brother-in-law. But one thing I did note, and which I recollect well, was that from the moment when I first laid eyes on him I was certain that I'd seen him before. I forgot for a while, because he soon became familiar to me anyway. But whiles the feeling came back to me, and sometimes at night I wondered about it.